


After the Blight

by MisterCottontail



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Loss of Virginity, Post-Game(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-06
Packaged: 2018-03-10 21:13:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3303638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MisterCottontail/pseuds/MisterCottontail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fifth blight has ended, but all is not well in Thedas. Though the Archdemon is slain, the Warden Six Amell still has a score to settle back at the Circle Tower where her story began. Meanwhile, her reluctant followers are more interested in each others' nethers. This fic spans the time between the end of DA:O and the beginning of DA:I, and keeps on truckin'. Chapters will be updated as time allows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Blight

The warped construct of the Mage’s Tower cast an inky black shadow across the rocky shores of Lake Calenhad. Frigid dusk air rode the choppy waves of the cursed lake, casting gentle breezes through the darkening air that were just sharp enough to put a shiver through one’s bones. Even as the bloody red sun dipped beneath the broken horizon, a full harvest moon slowly arced through the sky. The sharp pinnacle of the Tower seemed to jut directly into the swollen celestial body, as if stabbing into the plump belly of some cosmic enemy. A modest party of adventurers stood unhappily around the warm semi-circle of light escaping through the door of a small ram-shackle tavern perched precariously on a deteriorating earthen outcropping under which only the black lake waited. The tavern seemed to be held together by sheer force of will as much as nails and wood, threatening to collapse and put itself out of its own misery at any moment, sealing away all of those inside with little regard to their personal safety. A strain of what might have once been considered music escaped the tavern, signaling to the outsiders that at least one person remained within the calamitous building. The tallest of the standing party spoke in a deep monotone voice, a moderate cloud of breath punctuating the sound.

“I fail to see what we are accomplishing here.”

“We are doing what we were asked to do. We are killing the men in this tavern,” came the reply.

“But why? It appears as if the entire building will be destroyed of its own accord without our assistance. We can simply move on and wait for the building to perform this task for us.”

“Can we move on please?” A third voice spoke, “It’s freezing out here.”

Plenty of taverns feature well-stocked bars, comfortable wooden benches, and roaring fires bursting from stone hearths that are capable of fighting off the worst blizzards in Ferelden. This was not one of those taverns. When the well-worn plank door exploded inward, shattered into a dozen pieces by one swift kick, the drunken commoners within barely bothered a glance toward the door. Such wanton destruction was commonplace in this particular establishment. Only the barkeep mustered the motor skills necessary to fix his attention on the warped entranceway to see what exactly he would have to deal with now.

For a few moments, there was only a dramatic stillness. The barkeep was ready to dismiss the calamity as the side effect of a random magical experiment in the tower; such events were hardly rare on the lake. Around the end of the time it took him to formulate this theory, he became aware of the dagger protruding from the rear of his skull. The exhalation of hot breath against his neck was enough to reassure him that he was, in fact, being stabbed, but it hardly mattered what the barkeep may or may not have believed in the end anyway. What is important is the fact that when he fell slumped over the counter, the drunkards at the bar found themselves staring at an elf that they were quite in agreement had not been there a few moments ago. They then noticed the rapidly undulating floorboards supporting them. One of the men turned in time to see a massive creature, nearing seven feet tall, wearing more steel than any one person has any right to own. The creature, a Qunari in fact, was in the process of charging at the shocked patrons, whilst swinging a massive hammer in their general direction. The hammer burst through the first patron’s head with ease, colliding with the second man’s shoulder a few seconds later with enough momentum to send him sprawling into the deteriorating wooden wall of the tavern.

The broken man stared upward, his eyes glazed over and unfocused. He could understand why the right side of his body would no longer move, but he was somewhat confused as to why he found himself completely immobile. Rolling his eyes as far to the side as possible, he caught sight of a large white glyph, slowly rotating on the floor around him. Over the cacophony of the Qunari’s retreating footsteps, he could hear a few words of a spell he remembered hearing in the tower once. He was surely not the first, nor the last, man to utter these last words:

“Oh, fuck me.”  
\---  
The tavern’s remains burned intensely, bathing most of the docks in a twitchy orange light. A heavily-armored mage cracked her fingers and stretched her arms outward, causing a small shift in the direction of the flame’s growth.  
“Still freezing, Alistair?” She smirked, “Shall I set fire to a few other innocent bystanders?”

“No, thank you. I’m warm, actually, you might want to, I don’t know, put out the bystanders you are already burning? Just a suggestion.”

Sten, the Qunari, replied first, “It would seem rather pointless to extinguish them now. They aren’t even screaming anymore.”

The mage, known as Six, spoke calmly, her voice carrying an air of command. “Strip the bodies of anything with value, then burn what’s left.”

“What then?” This voice belonged to Zevran, the elf that had been the last thing to go through the recently-deceased tavernkeep's mind.

“Then we find that traitorous bitch in the circle and silence her. Teryn Loghain may have poisoned her mind, but she won’t stand in my way.” Alistair and Sten shared a knowing glance. Six had become their leader mostly out of a lack of initiative on either of their parts, and now they were both beginning to question the benefits of their shared passiveness. 

Around the party, the night sky was decorated with wisps of orange and red ash caught on the breeze. There were sharp, wet sounds permeating the air as elf and mage mercifully buried daggers into the willing flesh of dying men. Undulating moonlight cast disturbing shadows on the faces of the dead, making their expressions twist and warp, and their frozen mouths form abyssal words and profane swears. Alistair shivered. He hated seeing the twisted judgment on their morbid faces. The grisly work continued for another hour, during which the small party was joined by two others, Morrigan, the witch, and Oghren, a fire-headed dwarf with a temper to match. A harsh and frosty chill fell over the cliffside as the night pressed on.

“Let’s build a fire,” Alistair finally suggested. “We’ll be here for a while.”

“Are you cold?” Morrigan asked, quite comfortable in the chilly weather.

“No, well yes, I suppose a little.”

“There are better ways,” Morrigan teased, “to stay warm.”

“Oh yes,” Alistair replied, a coy smirk breaking through his flushing cheeks. “Blankets, right? Oh and warm furry pets.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Strong ale?”

“No.”

“A hot meal?”

“Alistair.”

“What?” He stumbled over his words, having a hard time keeping steady eye contact. “I can’t say I haven’t thought about it, but an apostate and an ex-templar? It’s a bit…unconventional.”

“Is that a problem for you?”

“Not at all, my dear, but Alistair may have an issue with it,” Zevran interrupted with a toothy grin. By the time Morrigan turned back to Alistair, the Warden was already blushing heavily and stalking away toward the rest of the party. She sighed heavily, flashing a rage-filled glare in Zevran’s direction. As might be expected, the rogue mistook the expression for a fit of passionate lust, and returned the glare with a wink. Morrigan threw up her hands and stalked away, leaving Zevran alone and confused.

Six stood on the edge of the lake’s only dock, furious. The aged and dissolving wood creaked pitifully beneath her steel-clad feet. She could hear the protests of the dock. It was what she couldn’t hear that was causing her anger. What she couldn’t hear was the reassuring sound of lake water slapping gently on the side of a wooden boat. She also couldn’t hear the sound of said boat rapping against the dock in a series of hollow wooden booms. The absence of these sounds was most likely due to the fact that there was not a boat tethered to the dock, or really anywhere near it. The boat was about fifty feet away, bobbing rapidly up and down on the lake’s surface, illuminated by a small lantern in the hand of a frightened Templar knight.

“Say all you want,” he called across the frigid waters, “I’m not coming back!”

“I’m a mage, you daft man, I can kill you from here!”

“A lot of good this boat will do you out in the water with me dead, eh?”

The Warden leader groaned in frustration and gestured to the sky as if giving up on the situation entirely. She turned on the spot and gave a sharp whistle. On the lake, the Templar raised his arms defensively and stared at the sky, waiting for some arcane horror to fall upon him. Instead, he heard a distant galloping sound, followed by rapid panting and a loud and graceless splash.

Morrigan paused briefly outside of the ramshackle lean-to serving as Alistair’s tent. She thought she heard loud barking and splashing out in the center of the lake, but quickly decided that she’d be happier not knowing its cause. She ducked into the low structure, though her short stature allowed her to stand easily once inside. It took her eyes several moments to adjust to the sudden darkness, though there wasn’t much here to see. Despite the chaos outside, Alistair’s quickly constructed shelter was quite orderly. He had thrown it together utilizing a standing corner of the destroyed tavern while the rest of the party had been busy complaining about the weather and pulling gold teeth from dead men. Alistair was illuminated by the light of a half-dozen candles, sitting with his back against one scorched wall, hastily scribbling in a leather-bound journal.

“Why bother setting up camp when we’ll be leaving in the next few hours?”

“It’s nice to have privacy, even if only for those few hours,” Alistair replied, not looking up from his writing.

“Oh,” Morrigan sounded annoyed, but there was no way to tell if she was faking it. “I can just leave then. Wouldn’t want to interrupt your diary-keeping.”

“Just sit down,” Alistair snapped, his own voice carrying a somewhat tired edge. “Why do you always do that?”

“Do what?”

“Make me feel so guilty all the time.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You somehow manage to convince me that I should feel bad for not doing things that you want me to do.”

“Well, shouldn’t you?”

“Shouldn’t I what?”

“Do the things I want you to do?”

“Like what?” Alistair was aware that Morrigan was much closer to him than he had realized.

“Nothing dangerous,” She replied, her voice barely over a whisper.

“Surely,” Alistair’s voice trailed off as Morrigan leaned toward him. The mage’s slender hand came up to Alistair’s face; her finger brushing lightly against the templar’s evening stubble. She directed Alistair’s face toward her own, smiling a little when the man closed his eyes. Morrigan inhaled softly as her soft lips made contact with Alistair’s. She reveled in the sensation of the man’s untouched flesh. Morrigan groaned crankily as Alistair broke the kiss.

“What is the problem this time?”

“Well we hardly have privacy here.”

“Alistair, we are alone in your tent, how can we have any more privacy than that?”

“Everyone is right outside. Don’t you think they’ll hear it?”

“Well they damn well should.” At this, Alistair stopped and looked away, his arms folded stubbornly across his chest. Morrigan sighed again and turned to leave, crawling toward the shack’s low doorway. Before she could reach it however, she felt Alistair’s strong hand on her hip.

“Wait.”

“I waited through an entire blight, Alistair. I’m not waiting any longer.” Morrigan pulled forward, meaning to crawl haughtily out of the hut. Alistair tightened his grip, his fingers firmly holding the back of her robes. The ancient fabric tore easily with Alistair’s force, and the now loose fabric began to slide off of the curve of the mage’s upturned ass.

Alistair was now left with a choice. In his hand, he held the edge of the last large remnant of fabric that was covering Morrigan’s body. He could hold it steady, turn away, and give the woman enough privacy to redress. Or, he could let go.  
He let go.

His eyes fell ravenously to Morrigan's body. The small arrow-like dimples of her lower back led into the shallow canyon of her spine. Alistair’s gaze poured through these curves like water, cascading down the decadent tautness of her ass to the hint of feminine mound visible between Morrigan's porcelain thighs. Morrigan’s face swiveled around; her mouth drawn into a wide smile. She had scarcely expected such forwardness from the shy man. Experimentally, Alistair extended his hand again, resting it on Morrigan’s flank.

Her skin was surprisingly soft and supple, despite her hard life. To Alistair’s calloused fingers, it felt as delicate as fine lace. Alistair rose to his knees and shuffled closer to the witch. Morrigan remained motionless, pleased that she had won, but determined to make the Warden do the work. Alistair continued his delicate expedition, his fingers tracing over regions of Morrigan’s body that he had rarelyr even seen on another woman before. As his palm moved ever southward, his thumb fell into the central curve of Morrigan’s ass, eventually coming to rest on the concavity just before the base of her thighs.

Morrigan had spun her head back, and was staring straight at the blank, uninteresting lean-to door. Her sense of victory was giving way to a childish excitement, and she found herself struggling to remain calm. She felt herself shaking, but whether it was from nervousness or cold she could not determine. After a minute that stretched into eternity, Morrigan turned slowly around again. Alistair was staring wide-eyed at her body, his finger absent-mindedly roaming from the smooth roundness of her ass to the carnal heat beneath it.

Growing bored of Alistair's slow pace, Morrigan broke the stalemate, pulling away from his touch with some regret. Alistair himself seemed perplexed, and Morrigan moved quickly before the man had enough time to retreat completely. She slipped out of the torn remains of her clothing and knelt in front of Alistair, instructing for him to stand. With his legs spread somewhat apart and his knees bent slightly, Alistair was able to fully stand within the lean-to, and he was able to hold onto the bulky cross-beams near the ceiling for support. Morrigan rested on her knees, essentially sitting on her feet. Her deft fingers worked quickly, pulling the lacing open on the front of Alistair’s leather britches. She was happy to see that, despite the fact that Alistair seemed unable to look down at her, his body was more than willing to continue. She peeled the tight-fitting leather downward, just to the standing man’s knees.

“This doesn't seem very in character for you,” Alistair groaned, "You aren't about to disappear and push me out into the cold, are you?" his voice already betraying the hoped reply.

“I've told you before, Ser Templar. I always get what I want.” Before Alistair could puzzle through the mage’s ambiguity, Morrigan parted her lips and passionately accepted Alistair’s length. Alistair’s skin smelled of rich leather tinged with the delicate spice of masculine hormones. It was a pleasant smell she had not experienced for some time. 

Morrigan moved little at first. She held Alistair in the moist warmth of her mouth, letting her breathing and occasional swallows pull gently on the sensitive, rigid mass. Alistair also remained relatively motionless; relying on what he strangely assumed was a certain level of expertise on Morrigan’s part. With the exception of a few lectures and occasional glimpses across the bunk room late at night, Alistair had gained little knowledge of this particular aspect of life.

A combination of countless months of constant travel and the thrill of the hunt, provided more than enough motivation for Morrigan's own arousal, and when Alistair next glanced downward, her slender fingers were busily working clamped between her thighs. Pleased though she may be, Morrigan was unwilling to make her enjoyment obvious. The idea of Alistair knowing how pleased she was to have her mouth around his cock was too much to bear. Dense though he was, the goosebumps and pink flush of her shoulders formed enough of a sign to the virgin knight.

“Wait, wait,” Alistair’s voice was filled with hesitation and regret. “I want this to be special. I want it to be about us, not just me.”

Morrigan was taken aback. She sat back, holding up two fingers with glistened with moisture in the candlelight. “I’m enjoying myself plenty without your assistance," she replied with more snark than was necessary.

“Well, I see that, but…” Alistair searched for the words. “I want it to be like it is in stories.”

“Lush pillows, a toasty fire, and disembodied angelic voices filling the air?”

“For a start,” he smirked, while pulling himself away from Morrigan with a certain level of reservation. He pulled his tunic, emblazoned with the crest of Redcliffe, over his head, dropping it casually to the packed dirt floor. Stepping out of his lowered britches, Alistair dropped to his knees, and approached her. He leaned in close, his lips easily locating Morrigan’s. They embraced for a long moment, sharing their heat in the cold evening. Morrigan reached for Alistair’s cock with one hand. She was beginning to wonder if the fun was worth the effort, but her body seemed to want to comply.

Alistair and the mage shared several rapid broken kisses as they moved to lay on the dirt, their tongues touching for mere seconds between hurried breaths. Morrigan felt drunk on arousal, gently tugging at Alistair's erection, relishing the shared aroma of their exertion. After a few moments, she noticed Alistair’s fingers against her sensitive skin. Surprised, Morrigan shivered despite herself, and smiled through pressed lips. Alistair mimicked what he had watched her do moments earlier, running his fingers gently over the slit of her cunny with shocking dexterity. The calloused skin of Alistair’s palm brushed occasionally against her clit. She groaned softly, suddenly aware of how many people were waiting outside.

She was losing control of the situation, and wasn't happy about it. Morrigan shuffled away from Alistair's grip and shakily stood. 

“What are you doing?” Alistair asked, afraid that the answer might imply an end to the experience.

“I think it's quite time to end the appetizers and begin with the feast." She stepped around him, smiling coyly as Alistair witnessed her full nudity in the light of the candleflame. She lowered slowly, bare feet poised on either side of the reclining male's hips. As the head of Alistair's cock threatened to pierce her, she stopped and leaned forward, her hands against his chest. "Unless you're already satisfied."

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, reader. This is a fic that began after my very first playthrough of Dragon Age: Origins back in 2009. Lost to time until now, it has never seen the light of day. My writing has changed quite a bit over the past 6 years, so don't be surprised if the next chapters read a tad differently.
> 
> Constructive criticism is always welcome, so comment to your heart's content. Take your frustration out on me. I can take it.


End file.
